Flamethrower

by Maggie Estep

  Dr. Jody Ray emerged from the bathroom. Her face was skim-milk blue, and she looked twenty pounds thinner.

  “I’m very sorry, Ruby,” Jody said without looking Ruby in the eyes. “I’m sorry you’ve had to see this. But please go now.”

  “There’s a note.” Ruby motioned toward the note, which Jody immediately picked up.

  “You probably shouldn’t have touched that. Or the leg,” Ruby said. Before becoming a workaholic horse-trainer, Ruby’s boyfriend had been with the FBI. But it didn’t take having an ex-Fed for a boyfriend to know you weren’t supposed to touch evidence.

  Jody Ray kept staring at the note, completely ignoring Ruby.

  “Why don’t you let me call the police?” Ruby said.

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll stay here while you call them.”

  “The police will not be called,” The Psychiatrist said.

  Ruby thought this was stupid.

  “That’s just stupid, Jody.” She had never talked to her psychiatrist like this. She had cursed up a storm, ranted, and raved, but she’d never accused The Psychiatrist of being stupid for the simple reason that she wasn’t. Until now. This was stupid. Ruby sucked her Fireball.

  “Are you eating something?” The Psychiatrist asked, finally looking at Ruby.

  “Fireball,” Ruby shrugged. She’d talked about her Fireball problem in therapy. Had mentioned that even while putting in fifty miles on her bicycle, she sometimes sucked on a Fireball. She had tangentially speculated aloud as to whether Lance Armstrong, the Secretariat of bike riders, had ever had a Fireball. She preferred speculating about Lance Armstrong’s possible familiarity with Fireballs to confiding what was inside her. The pit of dread she woke up with most mornings. The dread that didn’t leave until she either got on her bike or went to take care of Jack, the retired racehorse she kept at a rundown stable in the worst neighborhood in Brooklyn.

  “Can you not do that?” The Psychiatrist was staring at Ruby’s mouth, genuinely offended that Ruby would suck on a piece of candy at a time like this.

  “Sorry,” Ruby said, removing the Fireball. She thought about the times Ed had asked her not to chew huge wads of gum. Ruby had trouble with moderation. She was fairly well adjusted, she had loved her late father, and she cherished her eccentric mother and difficult sister. She had had an alcohol problem and churned through a fair amount of love affairs, but who hadn’t. On the whole, she was friends with herself. She just wasn’t moderate.

  Jody suddenly ducked back into the bathroom. Maybe another round of vomiting. Ruby stared at the half-sucked Fireball she was still holding in her hand. The red food-coloring coating was gone, and all that was left was a little white ball.

  When Jody emerged, she was holding a garbage bag. Before Ruby could say anything, The Psychiatrist reached down, picked her husband’s leg off the floor, and put it in the garbage bag. Ruby was glad she’d spit that Fireball out.

  Ruby watched her psychiatrist tie a knot in the top of the garbage bag, walk into her office, and deposit the whole thing in a Carnegie Hall tote bag. Ruby didn’t know what offended her most, the defilement of the Carnegie Hall tote bag or her psychiatrist’s close-to-cavalier comportment.

  Jody marched back out of her office and suddenly grabbed Ruby’s elbow and unceremoniously guided her to the front door.

  “Hey!” Ruby said as The Psychiatrist closed the door in her face.

  Ruby stood there, blinking into the day. It was still bright under a cheerful, glaring orb of sun, but to Ruby it felt as though the temperature had plummeted. She shivered.

  Ruby’s first instinct was to call Ed even though Jody had ordered her not to involve him. She deliberated. Fished her phone out of her bright green backpack. As she stood holding the phone, it started vibrating in her hand. She flipped it open.

  “Yeah?” She’d answered without checking the incoming number. Always dangerous.

  “It’s Ed.” He sounded harried.

  “Hi. You okay?” Ruby tried not to think of Jody or of the husband’s leg.

  “I’ll be late,” Ed said defensively.

  “Of course,” Ruby said.

  “Don’t be like that,” he said.

  “I’m not,” Ruby lied. “I was going to cook something,” she added. “I’ll leave some in the fridge for you.” Cooking something usually translated into Tofu Surprise. Cubes of tofu sautéed with vegetables and cayenne pepper. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t good either.

  “Thanks,” Ed said. “Everything okay?”

  Ruby envisioned the leg.

  “I’m just leaving Jody Ray’s,” she said.

  “Oh.” Ed never asked about her sessions. Ruby didn’t know if this was due to a general distrust of psychiatry or to the fact that Ruby was seeing Jody in order to deal with the murder of an ex-lover.

  “How’s Juan the Bullet?” Ruby tried to sound cheerful, optimistic, anything but what she was.

  “I think he’s better,” Ed said. “But I probably can’t tell anymore. I’m worrying so much, objectivity’s out the window. Never mind sanity.”

  “I know,” Ruby said.

  “I’m sorry,” Ed said. “Sorry for how distracted I’ve been.”

  “It’s fine,” Ruby said. “Don’t worry.”

  There was an amiable moment of silence. Then Ruby told Ed she was heading out to the barn to do her chores. In exchange for free board for Jack Valentine, the former racehorse who’d been given to her when a small fracture had ended his racing career, Ruby mucked out stalls, cleaned tack, and groomed the eight horses that lived in a ramshackle barn owned by her friend Coleman.

  “I’ll see you when you get home,” Ruby said. “I’ll wait up.”

  “That would be nice,” Ed said softly.

  Ruby flipped her phone shut. She half expected Ed to call back and ask her what was wrong. He didn’t.

  Ruby walked toward the signpost she’d chained her bike to. She preferred riding a bicycle through dense murderous traffic to taking the subway. She did have a car, but driving—which she’d just learned to do—terrified her. So she rode her bike. She sometimes felt like some sort of freak for riding a bicycle everywhere, but bike riding wasn’t just the province of stoned messengers and people who worked in amusement park museums. In fact, thousands of New Yorkers did everything from ride all over the city in massive groups to race eight-thousand-dollar carbon-fiber bikes at the crack of dawn in Central Park. Though Ruby got her share of insults and angry drivers trying to kill her for sport, the bike was better than mass transit.

  Ruby put two fingers in her pocket and found another Fireball. She popped it into her mouth then slowly pedaled east.

  3. HELP

  It was close to rush hour, the noise was dizzying, and the air hung thick over the buzzing traffic. A cab tried to kill Ruby, and she hated New York. Everyone who loved New York hated New York and fantasized about moving to Vermont. Some actually did move to Vermont. They pretended to be happy there, but Ruby knew they were secretly cold and bored. So she stayed in New York.

  Ruby crossed through Queens to where it nudged up against the ass-end of Brooklyn. Planes flew low, homing in on nearby JFK Airport. Here and there, a seagull cut a path through the polluted sky.

  On Linden Boulevard, Ruby rode up onto the sidewalk for a few blocks until she reached the side street that led down into the tiny neighborhood known as The Hole.

  There had been a lot of rain lately, and most of it had gathered here, in this five-acre dent of land situated a few hundred yards from a long series of housing projects and highways. It was, as far as Ruby could tell, the strangest neighborhood in New York City. To one side was Howard Beach, a white working-class area jutted up against the periphery of unruly East New York. Squat in the middle of it all was a small area known as Lindenwood, where blue-collar home owners shared land with horses kept in ramshackle barns. The barns weren’t entirely legal, but real estate there wasn’t exactly valuable, so no one had done anything about it.<
br />
  As Ruby got off to walk her bike through a patch of mud, she saw the woman she’d come to think of as Pee Lady, squatting between two parked cars. She was a fiftyish, reasonably well-dressed woman who, for whatever reason, chose to urinate in public places. This was the fourth time in a month that Ruby had seen her. As far as Ruby knew, Pee Lady had no business at The Hole. Ruby had never seen her near a horse or talking to anyone who kept a horse there, and she didn’t seem to be friends with any of the home owners. No. The woman had wandered over from who-knows-where to pee there, between cars.

  As Ruby walked by, Pee Lady looked up. Her pale eyes locked on Ruby’s but nothing showed on her face. Ruby tried to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind.

  The stable where Ruby’s horse lived was a squat wooden building surrounded by a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence. Some days, Coleman, the stable owner, left his two pit bulls, Honey and Pokey, to guard the place. The dogs weren’t there now though. Coleman had probably taken them for a romp along Jamaica Bay, or to the posh doggie bakery in nearby Queens where the pits salivated over treats and stared down the designer dogs owned by the wealthy matrons who made up the bulk of the bakery’s patronage.

  Ruby unlocked the gate, wheeled her bike in, and leaned it against the fence. She walked into the small dark barn. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she involuntarily pictured Jody’s husband’s leg in the Carnegie Hall tote. She could still see the chunks of gore at the end of the leg. She took a deep breath and shook herself off the way a dog would after a nap.

  Ruby’s horse recognized her footsteps and whinnied intensely. As Ruby came closer, the big bay gelding shook his head and lifted his upper lip, exposing enormous yellow teeth. This was his way of asking for a peppermint. He wouldn’t let Ruby do anything with him until she’d produced the requisite piece of pink and white striped candy, a thing he’d gotten a taste for at the track.

  “Yeah yeah,” Ruby said. She took off her backpack and dug around until she found a small plastic bag full of peppermints. She usually kept a stash in her trunk in the tack room but had run out. She’d had the nerve to come empty-handed a few days in a row but now, finally, had the goods. The horse kept shaking his head as Ruby unwrapped a piece of candy.

  “Here.” She held out her palm, candy in the middle, and the big gelding greedily took it. As he noisily rolled the mint around in his mouth, Ruby got her cell phone out and dialed Jody’s office number. She wasn’t sure exactly what she might say to her psychiatrist. But she felt compelled to call.

  The machine came on: “You’ve reached the office of Jody Ray. Please leave a message after the tone.” Ruby hung up. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The horse was still clacking the mint against his teeth. Ruby desperately wanted to call Jane. Ruby had been friends with Jane for close to twenty years, and no one knew Ruby better. But Jane was off in India for the summer, studying yoga and Sanskrit, living in a shack without running water or electricity. She’d been gone two weeks and wouldn’t be back for another month. Ruby couldn’t imagine what kind of shape she’d be in then. At this rate, she’d explode within forty-eight hours. First, though, there were barn chores to do. Eight stalls to be mucked, eight horses to be groomed. It was monotonous and grueling. Exactly what she needed.

  Ruby wasn’t sure how much time had passed when her ass started vibrating. She’d tucked her phone into her back pocket but had forgotten to switch it from Vibrate to Ring.

  “Yeah?” She pulled the phone out, flipping it open without checking the incoming number.

  “Ruby, this is Jody”

  “Hi,” Ruby said. She felt idiotic saying hi under the circumstances, but what else was she going to say?

  “Where are you?” Jody asked.

  “At the barn, doing chores. What’s happening?” What’s happening sounded even more stupid.

  “Nothing good, I can tell you that much.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing. That’s why I’m calling. To reiterate what I said earlier. Please don’t tell Ed about any of this. Please don’t tell anyone. My husband’s life is at stake.”

  “It is? Has he been kidnapped?”

  “I cannot discuss any of this with you. And I have to apologize once more for what I’ve put you through. I never intended any such thing.”

  “It’s fine,” Ruby said, even though it wasn’t.

  “Good-bye,” Jody said, suddenly hanging up in Ruby’s ear.

  Ruby hated being hung up on. She was fairly certain that one of the things most wrong with modern society was rudeness. Hanging up in someone’s ear was inexcusable.

  Ruby immediately tried to call Jody back, but the call went straight to voice mail. She flipped her phone shut and put it back in her pants pocket. She stared at the pitchfork she was holding and fleetingly imagined impaling herself through the prefrontal cortex with it. Fascination with brain injuries had almost led Ruby to apply to medical school in her late twenties. But not quite. She was not good at taking tests or memorizing things. So she’d continued on her path as a drifter. And now was shoveling horse shit in exchange for free board for a recovering racehorse she’d never ridden. Ruby was deathly afraid of actually riding her horse. She just kept him as a pet. And worked many hours a week for the privilege of doing so.

  The pet in question was out back in the paddock now, and he whinnied, as if sensing he’d been thought of. Ruby put the pitchfork down, walked out of the barn, and went to look at her horse. Jack was standing in the center of the paddock, head high, ears pointed forward. He was looking at something, though Ruby had no idea what. After a few seconds, he lost interest in whatever it was and trotted over to where Ruby was standing. He skidded to a halt cartoon-style, stared at Ruby as if he’d never seen her before in his life, then relaxed, stuck his muzzle out toward her, and carefully nuzzled at her left ear.

  Ruby was completely absorbed in wondering if Jack was going to bite her ear, and she didn’t hear Triple Harrison coming up behind her.

  “Morning, sunshine,” he said, startling Ruby.

  She flipped around.

  “Oh. Triple, hi.”

  “Skittish today are we?”

  “I didn’t hear you come up behind me. You shouldn’t do that.”

  “Sorry, doll,” he shrugged and tried to look handsome.

  Triple Harrison was a likable drifter who lived in a mold-eaten house across from Coleman’s barn. Like Ruby, he owned a former racehorse. A bay mare named Kiss the Culprit who’d actually won a few in her day but was now fat, lazy, and unspeakably happy to be Triple’s pet.

  “How are you?” Ruby asked, knowing it was a loaded question. Triple never gave the expected answer of Fine. He liked to report, in detail, exactly how he was. Usually, this involved some sort of drama at his job. He worked as a lifeguard at a swank health club all the way over in Park Slope. For some reason, he couldn’t simply mind his business and make sure no one drowned. He was endlessly tying to befriend the swimmers and, now and then, dating a female swimmer. It invariably ended badly, and Ruby had to hear all about it. Lately, it had occurred to her that Triple told her all these grisly details to invoke pity so that maybe she’d sleep with him. She wouldn’t and had told him as much a few times over, but he never listened.

  “I’m fine,” Triple said, uncharacteristically.

  Obviously, something was wrong. “What’s the matter?” Ruby asked.

  “I’m low.”

  “Why?” Ruby asked.

  “I’m just low.” He said in a small voice, “Can I have a hug?”

  Ruby rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I guess.”

  Triple was a hugger. You wouldn’t expect it to look at him. He was tall with gangly limbs he’d never grown into even though he was at least thirty-five. His arms were covered in faded jailhouse tattoos, and his hair was shaggy. Ruby was sure his toenails were jagged and that he liked women who threw plates at him as a prelude to sex.

  Ruby let him hug her for a few seconds then took a
step back.

  “Where’s that boyfriend of yours?” Triple was looking Ruby over head to toe.

  She shrugged. “He got a really good two-year-old to train. It’s consuming him.”

  “I’m all for being consumed by a horse, but it don’t mean I wouldn’t be keeping an eye on my girl,” he said, his grin growing to shit-eating proportions.

  “Shut up, Triple,” Ruby said. For three seconds, she toyed with the idea of telling Triple about the leg. After four seconds, she realized this was an incredibly bad idea.

  “Always a pleasure chatting with you, but I’ve got work to finish in the barn,” Ruby said.

  “Want some help?” Triple asked.

  “I’m almost done, it’s okay. But thanks.” Ruby said. She opened the gate to the paddock and snapped a lead rope onto Jack’s halter. She wanted to get her horse back in the barn before Triple started in on his favorite refrain.

  “When you gonna ride that hoss?”

  Too late.

  “Soon,” Ruby said. She was tired of people asking when she was going to ride the damn horse, for the simple fact was that she had no idea when she was going to ride the damned horse. She was terrified at the prospect. She had first been around horses in her early twenties when she’d worked as a groom for two years outside Tampa, Florida. She’d learned how to ride but would never be a very confident rider. The idea of getting on a Thoroughbred who didn’t know how to do anything other than gallop around a racetrack wasn’t exactly compelling. She was putting it off.

  “How soon?” Triple persisted.

  Ruby looked right at him. There were tiny snakes of red in the whites of his eyes. He had a pimple on his forehead. “Soon,” she repeated.

  “Okay, okay.” Triple put his palms out in a defensive gesture. “No need to get angry.”

  “I’m not,” Ruby lied. She was. At herself. Hated her own chicken-shittedness. Usually, she didn’t see herself as a chicken, but then things like this came up. Things that were evidence of cowardice. It was awful.